“There, Miss, perfection itself,” she said with a triumphant smile.
Isabelle rose gracefully from the chair, adjusting the braid with her fingers. She felt a mixture of nerves and excitement, the enormity of the day settling in her chest.
“It would nae do to keep Laird McCallum waitin’ longer than necessary,” she said, her voice steady though her heart beat faster. “I must prepare meself fully, for the hour approaches.”
Effie stepped forward with a soft nod, a proud expression on her face. “Aye, Miss. Ye will be a vision this day. Let us see to it ye are ready in all ways.”
The room buzzed with activity as the maids gathered Isabelle’s trousseau, smoothing out the folds of her gown and laying out her undergarments and slippers.
Each movement was meticulous, their care and excitement tangible. Isabelle could not help but feel a small flutter of pride, the thought that this day marked a turning point in her life.
As she allowed the maids to fuss over her, she caught her reflection in a mirror nearby, the crown of braids framing her flushed face. It was strange to think how quickly yesterday’s chaos had turned into this moment of calm, of preparation.
She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath, bracing herself for the appearance of Laird McCallum and the start of a day she would never forget.
Hannah and Paula exchanged proud smiles as they finished their work. “Ye will draw every eye in the keep, Miss,” Hannah whispered.
Paula nodded eagerly. “Aye, and ’tis well deserved. Nay one could stand beside ye in beauty.”
Effie laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, drawing Isabelle’s attention. “Shall we fetch the dress now, Miss?”
Isabelle nodded, her gaze steady and determined. “Aye, Effie. Let us nae tarry. The hour waits for nay one, and neither shall I.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Declan sat at the heavy oak table in his room, the morning sunlight streaming through the narrow windows and catching the dust motes in the air.
Before him lay a hearty Scottish breakfast: thick slices of buttered oat bread, a platter of golden fried eggs, sizzling rashers of bacon, and a bowl of black pudding, alongside a steaming mug of strong, dark tea.
The aroma filled the chamber, mingling with the faint scent of leather from his traveling gear and the chill of the castle stone walls. He picked up a slice of bread, butter melting into its warm surface, and took a deep bite, savoring the simple, sustaining flavors that always steadied him in the morning.
A sharp knock at the door made him pause, his hand frozen mid-bite.
“Enter,” he called, his voice carrying the calm authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
The door swung open, revealing a servant from the Ross clan, bowing low.
“Me Laird McCallum,” the man said, “Laird Ross sent me to see ye prepared for the weddin’. I am to help ye into yer garments.”
Declan nodded once, chewing thoughtfully before replying.
“Aye, the clothes are in the trunk. Folded and ready. Bring them here and see to them as I finish me meal.”
He gestured to the trunk at the foot of the bed, his gaze returning to the platter of eggs and bacon before him.
The servant moved with quiet efficiency, lifting the lid of the trunk and pulling out the finely woven garments of a Scottish Laird. A rich woolen tunic in deep McCallum green lay atop a tartan kilt patterned in the clan’s colors, edged with crimson and gold threads. Accompanying them were long leather boots, polished to a deep chestnut sheen, a belt with a finely tooled buckle, and a ceremonial dagger nestled within a scabbard embroidered with the family crest.
Declan’s dark brown hair, tied back, would be adorned with a small green ribbon in homage to the clan, completing the ensemble befitting a laird on his wedding day.
He continued to eat, savoring the last bites of black pudding and bacon as he watched the valet arrange the clothing carefully on a nearby chair. Each piece was folded with precision, the fabric of the tunic pressed smooth and the kilt pleated perfectly.
When the plate was cleared, Declan set it aside and stood, muscles flexing beneath his tunic as he approached the washbasin. Cold water splashed over his hands and face, the chill biting but invigorating, sending shivers down his scarred arms.
He ran a cloth through his hair and wiped his mouth clean of breakfast remnants. The mirror reflected a man both imposing and regal, each scar a mark of battles past, each line on his face a testament to the hardships that had shaped him.
The servant approached, bowing slightly before speaking.
“If it pleases ye, me Laird , I shall help ye into yer weddin’ clothes now.”
